


wind in the meadow

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Gen, Rohan, Shieldmaidens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Three shieldmaidens through the ages.





	wind in the meadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northland/gifts).



> The title is from the Lament for Eorl the Young.

Her mother, before she died, sang to her songs of the shieldmaidens of old and their faithful steeds.

Cyneswith the Bright was her favorite, mounted on her spirited Windfola, steel in her hands as she cut down her enemies and faced the Dark One himself, vanquishing the shadows with the power of her sword.

She played at being Cyneswith when she was young, galloping around on her pony with a crude wooden sword stolen from the boys’ training salles.

As she becomes older, Cyneswith and Windfola fade from her mind. But she still trains with sword and spear, and waits.

* * *

The long grasses brush her thighs as she walks, and the wind blows through her hair.

She crouches down to touch the ground, grabs a handful of dirt. The soil here is soft and dark and loamy, crumbling under her touch, the smell of it rich and earthy when she sniffs it. In the distance, green foliage frames the far end of the great grass sea. The dark eaves of the forest are held back by the sun-kissed golden grasses tickling her face.

Windfola nudges her shoulder and whinnies.

“Yes,” she tells her, “I think we will grow strong here.”

* * *

She shifts in her seat, body aching from small cuts and bruises. Her sword flashes up and down, and around again, cutting down bodies without thought.

Something whistles pas ther ear. A spear she grabs mid-flight and throws back to its owner, impaling him in the chest.

Her armour is stained red with blood, the ends of her braids a coppery brown. The metallic tang in the air, the taste filling her mouth, is unmistakable. Her sword alone gleams steel-blue.

“Death!” she screams to the sky, voice hoarse and torn. “Death!”

Her enemies flee before the thunder of Windfola’s hooves.


End file.
